


Undeserved Brutality

by howldax



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, Gen, Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3696122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howldax/pseuds/howldax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An encounter with the wendigo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undeserved Brutality

**Author's Note:**

> This is for a prompt by mizumonope on tumblr, which I will put in the end notes to avoid spoiling it. Please leave kudos and comments! :3

Will knows the wendigo is in the house. He can sense it, and so can the dogs if the way they are whining means anything. Sweat sticks his shirt to his back where he is curled up on his bed; he feels like he is burning just under the skin, blood and skin replaced with boiling tar, thick and viscous and cloying. He opens his mouth and it spills out – he retches, black spattering the sheets and floor before it pools and begins to bubble. Will scrambles backwards in panic even as more spills over his ashen lips, one foot brushing a puddle on the sheets and scalding red, the skin cracking. The dogs are louder, whining in a rising crescendo, and Will wonders if they are trying to warn him.

 

A moment later it becomes clear that they are. Will is still on the bed, pressed as far away from the tar puddles as possible; the wendigo rises at the foot of the bed, black eyes unseeing yet focused completely on Will, and he roars at it, flames circling his head like a torque and licking at his neck. He chokes as something forces its way up his throat, but as soon as it reaches his mouth he understands and is thankful as he spits, watching the ear land in tar and dissolve.

 

Distantly, he wonders what it means. The wendigo creeps closer.

 

Will roars again, the sound breaking when his voice cracks with strain. The wendigo flinches. Encouraged, Will tries to do it again, but he can't get his throat to do anything more than click painfully. His crown of fire engulfs his neck and shoulders, and the wendigo slinks forwards as if sensing his weakness. Will knows the story of the wendigo; a man turned monster through the consumption of human flesh. His skin splits as if along seams, slivers of muscle and fat bursting through like an invitation. The wendigo crawls closer, sharp bones stretching its skin as it eyes up the feast Will is presenting, his burning crown now a shroud of flames draped down his back and chest. The smell of cooking meat makes Will gag and simultaneously salivate, the last drops of tar mixing with saliva as it trickles down his chin. The wendigo is so close he could touch it if he reached out.

 

They stare at each other, a moment of stillness, until it shifts and Will lunges for its throat. Its mouth opens but doesn't make any noise – or at least no noise that can be heard over the baying of the dogs, who are in a frenzy of howling and barking and snapping teeth, almost feral in their ferocity as they swarm around the bed. The wendigo's teeth catch Will's arm, the delicate skin breaking to show blood, and he slams it against the bed on its back, resting all of his weight on its body as it struggles with uncoordinated scratches and powerless kicks, oddly easy to pin for such a large creature. Will feels something snap beneath him.

 

His hands squeeze its throat without finesse, just crushing pressure and desperation, and fire consumes them both as black eyes go cloudy, milky strands slicking their way across sunken eyeballs and spilling over the edge of the sockets, leaving them empty. It stops moving. Will's hands are slick with blood.

 

Will pants, his hands still around its throat, curled into claws he can't seem to force open. The flames are gone and he is miraculously still whole and unburnt, but he feels like nothing more than ashes. The spark of victory blinks into apathy.

 

He unlocks each fingers from the wendigo's collapsed throat and pulls back. The dogs have quietened from their crescendo, whining and snuffling pitifully. Will reaches out a trembling hand to comfort them but they shy away and cluster around the wendigo, licking at its sunken face and nuzzling its limp, angular body.

 

Will wakes up in the woods. There is blood on his hands, his bare feet are torn to shreds and he is shivering with cold, in nothing but a damp shirt and boxers. When he rubs his fingers together the blood cracks and falls off, old and brown. He remembers the fight with the wendigo and draws in a shaky breath. This part of the woods is unfamiliar but he can hear the stream to his right – he pads towards it, wincing with each press of the twig-covered ground against his bleeding soles.

 

By the time he arrives back home the sun has fully risen, the reddish light of dawn morphing slowly into the dull blue of morning. He leaves a trail of bloody footprints across his porch and opens the screen door with hands shaking with exhaustion. The dogs push past him and flee, no welcoming barks or friendly noses, and Will wonders why his defeat of the wendigo has caused this reaction. When he steps into the bedroom the reason becomes horrifyingly clear.

 

Winston lies on the bed, still and stiff. His throat is a crushed, bloody mess; the blankets around him are twisted with the effort of his desperate struggle to survive. There's a quiet, broken noise filling the room, and while Will recognises that it's coming from his throat he can't control it, can't make it stop as tears spill over his cheeks, his breath stuttering as his lungs seem to shrink. He makes himself move closer.

 

“Winston?” Will knows Winston is dead, but he finds himself making soothing noises as he reaches out a hand to caress his face, stroking down the ruffled fur. The noises devolve into helpless sobs as Will begins to fully comprehend what he has done. He has killed his most loyal companion, most loving friend, with brutality a creature as gentle as Winston should never have had to endure. The snapped rib pushes the skin out of place; Will whispers heartbroken apologies into one silky ear.

 

Hannibal finds him there the next evening, having come to find out why Will was absent from work.

 

“Will, what have you done?” Hannibal asks, injecting the precise amount of horror into his voice needed for Will to begin crying once more, curled up on the bed beside his once closest companion.

 

Hannibal watches Will's hand card through Winston's fur and smiles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: "I had this thing in mind of Will totally loosing grip of himself and his own reality and ultimately starting to choke one of his dogs." I decided that he would actually kill dearest Winston because I am a horrible human being. You're welcome. I'd love any comments and/or kudos!


End file.
